


Reconsiderations

by PFL (msmoat)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16013957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: The different ways in which the lads reconsider their options.





	Reconsiderations

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick story to answer the Weekly Obbo challenge over on the DW/LJ community Teaandswissroll. Unfortunately, it got away from me, and it was during a time when I had no time to write except on the weekends. It took me _three_ of them. Gah. So, I'm way past the deadline, and therefore will simply say: _inspired_ by the Weekly Obbo challenge: reconsider.

****  
_So I joined the Force. Got some discipline._  


Reality mixed with dreams, and Ray didn’t know the difference. He couldn’t move, although he knew his assailant was still there and would kill him. Get up! His muscles wouldn’t react. He could hear his own breaths, quick and harsh. He waited. Angry. Scared. Where was Johnny? His world faded to black.

_He’s outside school. Johnny is leaning against the wall. “Heard about you. Game for anything, they say. No rules. I’m Johnny.”_

_“Ray.” He knows who Johnny is, everyone does. He tries to stay cool. “What’ve you got in mind?”_

_Johnny pushes away from the wall and slings an arm around Ray’s shoulders. “Let’s discuss it over booze and fags.”_

Voices woke him. Two women. It was night.

“Leave him. It’s none of our business, is it?”

“He’s just a lad. We should get help!”

Pain hit him as he tried to move, and again all was darkness.

_“No limits, Ray.” Johnny grins at him._

_“Yeah.” He hates being told what to do. “Not for the likes of us.”_

_Johnny kisses him, and Ray kisses him back._

“Christ, what a mess. He could lose that eye. Is he awake? Take it easy, son, we’re taking you to hospital. You’re going to be fine. Tell ‘em to hurry, eh?”

_He’s fighting, knife in hand, grinning with exhilaration. He knows he’ll win. They always underestimate his speed and skill. Think he’s too young, too short, too skinny._

_“Kill him, Ray!” Johnny shouts at him._

_Why should he? No one tells him what to do. He lunges with the knife, pierces the other boy’s body—enough to harm, but not kill. His decision. The other boy cries out, but Ray doesn’t care. He steps back as the other falls to the ground._

_Ray shudders but he doesn’t know why._

He awoke to voices again. He struggled to understand the words. 

“He can get an implant, once he’s healed. He’s really very lucky.”

“Lucky!” That was his mother’s voice, he realised. “Oh, Ray.” 

He had disappointed her. Again. He sank back into his dreams.

_“Try it, Ray.” Johnny shows him the syringe._

_“No.”_

_“Fucking’s even better when you’re high. C’mon!”_

_“No.” He pushes Johnny away._

_“I thought we were a team. I need you!” But Ray knows the truth._

_Johnny loves the drugs, not him._

Ray opened his eyes, took in his surroundings. Hospital. What—? Where—?

“Easy, take it easy.” He saw it was a nurse speaking to him, walking to his bed in the ward. “You’re in hospital. You’re injured, but you’ll be fine. You can’t speak right now. You need to relax.”

He ached. His face ached. There was movement nearby, and then his mum was there, eyes worried, face white. He’d have a new cheek, she said, as if that mattered the most. An implant. Did he remember what happened? They’d found him, beaten, near the street outside a bombed-out building. A woman alerted police about him, but she had left before they arrived. Did he remember?

He shook his head. And later in the day, he told the police the same thing: he didn’t remember anything. They weren’t sympathetic. Their eyes told him what they thought of him, what they thought he’d been up to in that abandoned building. They must have found the club, then, but not the others. They’d’ve seen the bottles, the syringes, the fags. Johnny and the others must by lying low, waiting for him to get out. The police said to contact them if he remembered anything. He nodded, and they all knew he was lying.

He slept, despite the noise around him. The same dreams and images, until a new scene took over: _He’s fighting, but there are too many of them, and they’re better than he is. Where’s Johnny? They ask, repeatedly. Tell us. He won’t, even if he knew. But then he hears Sherry scream. Oh, Christ, they’ve found her! He launches himself at them—_

And woke with a gasp. Ray looked around the ward, but the police were long gone. Sod it, he had to find Sherry. He struggled to sit up, but dizziness hit him. He waited it out with grim determination, then got out of bed. He made it to the door before they noticed him, but by then he was grateful for their help back to his bed. “Get ‘em,” he said. “Coppers.”

He didn’t know how long it was before they came again, the same pair as before. But this time, their scepticism was short-lived. “Malone? Harry Malone—are you certain?”

“Of course I bloody am! He was there, with three of his men. They found Sherry.” He didn’t know her last name, she was a runaway who’d taken up with them some months ago. The club, they called it, where they gathered. And then he told them about the drugs, and Johnny, and how Johnny had cheated Malone. He didn’t know if they believed him when he said he didn’t have anything to do with the drugs. He didn’t care if they did. He’d done what he had to do. After they left, he slept again, and his dreams left him at peace.

They found Sherry’s body two days later in the river. She’d been raped and strangled. Johnny’s mother came to see him in hospital, shouted at him for telling lies about Johnny. “He was a fine lad before he met you!” And then she cried, because Johnny had disappeared and no one knew where he was. When Ray got out of hospital, he found he was isolated, shunned by his friends. He’d grassed. It didn’t matter what had happened to him, or to Sherry. 

No charges were brought against Harry Malone. He had an alibi, Ray was told, and there was no proof he was involved. They had only Ray’s word he’d been there, and that wasn’t enough. Ray went home. He climbed to the roof of their block, and sat with his back against a chimney, staring at the single star he could see. “No limits.” But his disregard for consequences had led to chaos and destruction. Even if Johnny was alive, he was lost. Sherry was dead, and it was his fault. That boy he’d stabbed— Ray closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t cared, but he vowed he would. Now. The only thing he could change was himself. He obviously couldn’t trust his instincts; he needed rules.

He cut off his old life as if with a blade. He didn’t need anyone but himself. He turned his eyes toward the police. He wanted to bring people like Harry Malone to justice. If that meant he had to walk a straight line, so be it. He’d funnel all his anger into something that mattered. 

*****

 

**_Don’t let them beat you._ **

“It’s his to use as he wants. I’d recommend investing it, or at least putting it into a savings account.” Mr Humbolt retrieved the paper Bodie had just signed, put it into a folder and closed it. “I doubt you will listen to me, however.”

“We’ll see he doesn’t waste it,” Donald said. 

Bodie didn’t look at his step-father, but he knew he was smiling. He wondered if Mr Humbolt was as taken in by it as most were—as his mother had been. Still was, when it came to that. 

“Perhaps school—a trade—” His mother spoke, but was interrupted by Donald.

“Oh, he’s done with school, aren't you, lad?” Donald looked back at Mr Humbolt. “He’s making his way in the world already. Helping us out at home.”

As if Donald hadn’t spent the last six months digging at Bodie for ‘failing’ at school. It had been Bodie’s choice to leave, and he’d got on well enough: helping on the milk rounds, then at the bakery, being a messenger, and now working at the market. But then, Donald had wanted him out of the house, and none of those jobs paid well enough for that. Truthfully, Bodie had taken a certain, perverse delight in forcing Donald to house him. The man was a twat, a would-be petty tyrant, but wasn’t prepared to throw Bodie out of the house—yet. And now, no doubt, he considered Bodie’s windfall as his own. Granny, Bodie thought, would not approve. “Reconsider, lad,” she’d’ve said. It was time he realised he had only himself to rely on.

“Actually, I have a plan for the money, Mr Humbolt,” Bodie said.

Three pairs of eyes turned to him, but only one set had malice in them. Bodie smiled. He remembered the recruiting poster they’d passed on their walk to Mr Humbolt’s office. “I want to go to sea school. The National Sea Training School for Boys in Anglesey.” Out of the house, into a trade, and Donald would never see a penny of Gran’s money.

*****

 

**Forget the book.**

Breathing heavily, Bodie stood up, bloody knife still in his hand, staring at Haddad’s body. He had killed a man. Fear and revulsion in equal measure rose within him, but there was anger there as well, and that served to clear a space in his head. Haddad’s attempted rape was justification enough. Haddad must have thought Bodie was too young—too scared—to fight back. Or he’d been told that. Anger pushed fear and shock further away. He had to take care of himself. Bodie squatted beside the body, wiped the knife on Haddad’s clothes, then rose and walked away. He took the knife with him. In this part of Dakar it would certainly be morning before Haddad’s body was found, possibly even a day or more. But he would be found, and Haddad was part of the Lebanese community in the port city. Someone would want justice, or vengeance. He would go back to the ship, tell the captain he’d had enough leave—

No. The ship wasn’t due to leave port until Friday. Too long, too much risk. But...they couldn’t tie Haddad’s death to him—how could they? He just had to play it cool. But, maybe they’d know where to look. Maybe Haddad had done it before, preyed on young men from the ships. They’d be too drunk on leave and alcohol to be wary; they were transients, without connections. Bodie had been lucky he’d not drunk all of the bottle. He’d wanted to share some of it with Richter.

Richter. He’d know what to do. They were meant to be meeting—where the fuck was he? Probably in a brothel. Bodie checked the street before he left the abandoned building Haddad had pulled him into. He saw no one. He slipped away into the darkness, avoided the park where he was to have met Richter. He knew the brothels to check and he found Richter in the second one he tried. Richter had passed out, the girl told him, speaking French with a few scattered words of English. She looked scared as she stared at him, and Bodie wondered what he must look like. Wanting to be rid of her, he searched Richter’s trousers for money, and found a wad of it. He had the presence of mind to pull only part of the money out, searched for West African francs and tossed them to the girl. She grabbed them, dressed quickly, and fled. Bodie pulled the rest of the money out. He saw it was mixed currencies, and far more than Richter ought to have had by that time of night, on leave, having most likely already paid for sex and alcohol.

Haddad had known where to find him. No, it couldn’t be; Richter _wouldn’t_. But he remembered Haddad’s voice in his ear: “He said you’d fight.” Bodie had pretended to capitulate, until he’d seen his chance to grab Haddad’s knife. _He said_. Anger, and then fear threatened to overwhelm him. The ship wouldn’t be safe. _Someone_ would know Haddad’s pattern. Bodie pushed against the fear, forced it down. _Stay cool. Think!_

Bodie raised his head as he heard voices in the corridor outside the room. He stuffed all the money into his pockets, then left via the window. It was only a short drop to the street below. He walked quickly into the darkness, not looking back. Richter had taught him to fight, had introduced him to brothels, had told him shore leave meant freedom from everything—no discipline, no rules. No loyalty, either, apparently. 

_Reconsider, lad_.

He was bored with ship life, anyway. He was seventeen, ready to strike out on his own. He’d see what Africa had to offer. Head inland, or maybe down the coast. And he wouldn’t forget the lessons Richter had taught him: forget the book, forget the rules, forget loyalty.

*****

 

**_You shoot to kill. He will._ **

Bodie didn’t take his eyes off Lenga. Marty was busy dealing with Mbaka. Krivas was watching Martell. The other man with Krivas was obviously bored. Only Bodie was paying attention to Lenga, Mbaka’s bodyguard. When Lenga suddenly moved, Bodie shot him. Mbaka cried out. Krivas and his man drew their guns, shifted to a defensive position. Bodie raise his hands, offering no threat to the mercenaries. Marty, alone, stayed still. “Well, that’s most unfortunate,” he said. He nudged the gun that had fallen from Lenga’s hand. “I’m afraid the price will only go up, Mbaka.”

“Benny,” Krivas said. Bodie watched with interest as the man, Benny, retrieved Lenga’s gun, then exited the tent. Through the open door, Bodie saw him meet with another man, then signal—no doubt to the other men Krivas had stationed in the bushes surrounding the meeting place. Krivas was one of Hoare’s men, but he seemed to run a more disciplined group than the others Bodie had met.

Bodie turned his attention back to Marty and his negotiations with Mbaka. Marty would prevail, Bodie knew. He always did. And then it would be back to Kinshasa, and then Libreville, where another shipment would arrive, and they’d do the exact same over again, except it would be with Kamate, Mbaka’s enemy. ‘Go with the money, my boy,’ Marty said. Always. Bodie had been hired as Marty’s bodyguard after he’d interrupted an attack on Marty in Libreville. He had been working as a bouncer at a club, which had turned out to be a boring job. 

“Don’t do it,” Poko had warned him. “It’s not safe out there. He runs both sides.” But Bodie had craved more excitement by then. It had taken him longer to realise that Poko was warning him about more than Marty’s profession. 

“Satisfactory,” he heard Marty say now, and knew that the negotiations were over. Marty turned and nodded at Bodie, who walked outside the tent and sent a pre-arranged signal to Mayer, who would bring the lorry. He saw Benny walking towards him, and was surprised to receive a nod and a smile as Benny passed him. Usually, he was ignored by everyone, which was an advantage for a bodyguard. People still routinely underestimated him, judging him younger than he was. 

“You’re good.” It was Krivas speaking to him. Bodie hadn’t noticed that he’d left the tent. Krivas took out a cigarette pack, offered one to Bodie. Bodie took it and Krivas shared his lighter with him as well. Krivas took in a breath of smoke, then blew it out. “Could do with a man like you in our outfit.”

Bodie shrugged. “I’ve got a contract through this run. Anyway, rumour has it the war’s winding down. You’re winning.”

“Maybe. But there are other places, other wars.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”

“The pay is good.”

“If you get paid.”

Krivas’s smile was sharp. “I always do.”

“Now, don’t poach, Krivas.” Marty approached them. “That’s the second time Bodie’s saved my life.”

Krivas raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps we’ll speak later,” he said, before walking away. 

Bodie saw that Mayer was finally arriving in the lorry, but he turned to Marty. “That probably only encouraged Krivas.”

Marty smiled a little. “I know what a bloodthirsty young man you are. If you are going to join them, you might as well do it with better than average starting pay. Have I taught you nothing about negotiation?”

“Thanks, Marty. But I’ll see you back to Libreville, as agreed.”

“Of course you will.” Marty clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s when you’ll get your pay.”

There were no further problems with the exchange of guns and money, and no incidents on the road to Kinshasa. He and Mayer kept a vigilant eye out, as it wasn’t uncommon for bandits to attack lorries—or for fighters to ‘recover’ money spent for arms. There were no incidents, however, and on the flight back to Libreville, Bodie thought about Krivas’s offer. He liked Marty, but the gun running had become a routine by now. Albeit with occasional excitement. He was glad he hadn’t listened to Poko. As for Marty’s proclivities, well, he hadn’t been shocked, or unable to handle them. While he had, occasionally, exchanged sex for money in the early days in Africa, those days were long past. Marty had taught him the value of money: be sure you were willing to make the exchange, and then charge as much as you could. Marty couldn’t afford him. But what Krivas wanted? Bodie smiled a little as he gazed out the window. He remembered the adrenaline surge he’d felt in the tent. Yeah, it was time for a reconsideration. He’d be willing to risk his life for that adrenaline surge. Provided the money was right.

*****

 

**_Can’t afford to give a damn._ **

“They’ve sold you.” Dembo’s face was filled with malicious glee. He prodded Bodie forward towards Coronel Alva’s office. 

Bodie didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He’d learned many things in his years as a mercenary, controlling his reactions was one of the first, hardest lessons. There was no room for emotion in war. The child playing by the side of the road might be the bait in a trap. If he had shown that Hardy was his friend, when they arrived at this secret Portuguese prison camp, they’d’ve made Hardy’s death even more painful. He had kept his face impassive. 

And yet, he knew his eyes widened when he saw who was waiting for him standing next to Coronel Alva.

“Yes. Satisfactory,” Martell said, looking Bodie up and down. “Once he’s cleaned up, of course.”

“He is dangerous. You will keep that in mind, yes?” Alva smiled a little.

“I assume your restraints are adequate. If not, I have my own.”

Bodie decided he’d better play along. “What the hell is this? Who—” Dembo hit him across the face, stopping his words. Bodie shut his mouth.

“Very well,” Alva said to Martell. “The deal is complete.” He looked at Dembo. “Get him ready, and put him in—”

“The boot, if you please.” Martell smiled.

“As you wish, senhor.”

He didn’t know how long he rode in the boot, but he was battered and sore long before the car stopped. When Marty finally opened the boot, he hissed at Bodie: “Quiet!” They were in a city by the sea—Luanda, most likely—and it was nighttime. He was hustled onto a dock and up a gangplank into what looked like a cargo ship. Marty didn’t speak to him again until they were in a cramped cabin . 

“You’re very expensive.”

“Thank you.” Bodie sat on a bunk, and then he passed out.

When he woke, they were apparently at sea, and he was alone in the cabin. He lay for a moment, simply revelling in being able to fully relax. He wanted food and a shower—or whatever would be close enough. And a shave. He wasn’t even curious about where they were going, just as long as it was away from Angola. He should never have gone back there, after leaving it for Biafra. But he’d followed the money.

About an hour later, feeling human once again, he found Marty watching the sea. He settled next to him at the railing.

“All right?” Marty asked.

Bodie nodded. He was alive. The rest was simply extra.

“Not sure this mercenary life was the best choice for you.”

Bodie shrugged. “It had its moments.” He still thrilled to the adrenaline rush; he liked the camaraderie, and the money. But he had seen his share of horrors, inhumanity, and cruelty. Some of it had been done by soldiers, but most of that on the orders of politicians on all sides. He did his job, lived by his own rules. But he had found there were jobs that no amount of money would tempt him to take.

“Past tense?”

Bodie stared at the sea, and heard his Gran’s voice, insistent as always. “I’m considering my options.”

“Well, I could offer you a couple of different…positions.”

Bodie sent him a quick grin. “I’m thinking of going back to England.”

Marty raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah. Cool and damp appeals just now.”

“Back to the merchant navy?”

“Christ, no. That bridge was burnt long ago, and remains unmourned. No. Maybe the army, though.” Shore leave, it seemed, had lost its appeal.

Marty sighed. “I might have known. Well, always useful to have contacts in the armed forces. You’ll need this, however.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a passport.

Bodie took it from him, and was astonished to discover it was his actual passport. “How in bloody hell did you…?”

“Very, _very_ expensive.”

Bodie stared at Marty and knew he was allowing more to show on his face than was wise. 

“I reckon we’re even now, Bodie.”

Bodie nodded. He understood debt. You saved a man’s life, he paid you back in kind. But he had thought that was just insurance for the duration. Self interest would always factor into it. Richter had betrayed him for money. Krivas had destroyed their relationship out of greed for Esther. Marikka had chosen the South African, Smit, for his wealth. Bodie frowned down at the passport in his hands. He no longer worked for Marty. Obviously, the debt meant more to Marty than the duration of the contract. He’d seen an opportunity to wipe the books clean, and he’d taken it. Okay. But. He looked up at Marty again, because he knew there was always an angle where Marty was concerned. “Where are we headed?”

“I wondered when you’d ask that. Haifa, as it chances. I have some business in Jordan.”

“Ah. For which you need someone in my profession?”

“That would be beneficial.”

“It’s a deal.” Debt paid, and a bit of bonus work as well. Fair enough. But as he looked out across the water, he was still puzzled. Marty dealt in trades and favours, always negotiating the highest price, and always taking precautions. He ought not to have given Bodie his passport—not yet. What was to stop Bodie from disappearing at Haifa? Maybe Marty was just getting soft, or maybe there was a deeper game that would become clear in Jordan. Whatever was going on, he’d handle it. At the moment, he was just grateful to be seeing the last of Africa. 

*****

 

**_Yeah, well, don't do as I say, do as I do._ **

“Dr Ross has recommended you be placed on suspension, pending further evaluation.” 

Bodie stood at parade rest before Cowley’s desk. “Sir.” He had known there would be payment due for pursuing King Billy. He had assumed it would be his life or career. This was harder, somehow. Maybe it was just that the adrenaline had dissipated.

“Craine wants to put you and Doyle through training exercises to test your partnership.”

Ray would kill him. Twice. “Sir.”

Cowley leaned back in his chair, playing with his glasses. “What would you have me do, Bodie?”

“Probation, sir. Re-assess, as needed.”

“Put you back on the streets with Doyle.”

Bodie clenched a fist behind his back. “Yes, sir.”

“Dr Ross has also recommended—here, let me read this.” He leaned forward, put his glasses on, and read from a paper on his desk: “In light of the obvious trust issues, it would be best for the team to be split. Further—”

“No way!” Bodie finally settled back into parade rest under Cowley’s stare.

“Are you under the impression that your preferences have anything to do with my decision?”

“No, sir.”

Cowley took his glasses off again. “Well. You are my best team. And Dr Ross failed to consider all the facts she had at her disposal when she assessed you earlier. I have also spoken with Doyle, and his preference matches your own. Very well, then. Probation.”

Relief flooded through Bodie, but he maintained his stance.

After a long pause, Cowley spoke again, his gaze fixed on Bodie. “But understand this. There will be no vengeance on my watch. Do I make myself clear?”

‘Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Bodie left the office to find Doyle waiting for him. Bodie nodded at him. Doyle pushed himself away from the wall and they walked down the corridor together. They had reached Doyle’s car before Doyle finally spoke: “Dinner at my place?”

“Yeah,” Bodie said, without hesitation, although he knew what it would cost him. Today of all days, when he knew what he had done to Doyle, and yet Ray had come back for him.

Doyle looked at him across the top of the car. “Still teamed, are we?”  
.  
“Yeah. Probation.”

Doyle nodded. “Reckon we need that.” He climbed into the driver’s seat.

As they drove, Bodie looked out the window and relived the scene: _Bodie. So help me, Bodie, if you finish that neck lock I'll shoot you dead._ He had chosen to act as he’d done, knowing that it would probably cost him CI5. He’d kept Doyle out of it for precisely that reason. He’d owed Keith, and he always repaid his debts, just as Marty had taught him. But, in the pause between Cowley’s words to him and Cheryl, with adrenaline and vengeance riding high, he’d hesitated. Not because of Cowley’s threat but because of the realisation that had shocked him like an exploding bomb: he _wouldn’t_ leave. There would be no jumping ship, no switching jobs, no going home. No reconsideration.

He was so fucked.

He had barely registered Cheryl’s words, but he’d released Billy. And his eyes had found Doyle—all the angry beauty of him—and the inescapable truth had been laid bare. He should have realised it when Marikka had died. He’d been so angry, betrayed yet again, as it had seemed, but he’d returned to Cowley and Ray. He’d made excuses to himself to explain it: he liked the job, and anyway where else would he go? He never went back, so there’d be no returning to the mercenaries, or the Paras, or the SAS. If he jumped ship now it would be into something completely different, and he just hadn’t thought of what that might be—yet. He’d certainly felt the stirring of dissatisfaction. He’d known he was expendable, but he had thought Cowley would negotiate the highest price for his sacrifice. Yet the senselessness of the secrecy about delivering Mr X to his rendezvous had shaken him, followed by the fiasco that had ended in Marikka’s death. He should have left CI5; that was what he did. In the end, other people would betray you in favour of their own self interest. So, look after yourself. It was in the clearing, when he was on his knees, ready to kill, that he had suddenly realised why he’d stayed: Ray. The one man who would never betray him.

Bodie closed his eyes.

“Oi! We’re here. Are you falling asleep on me?” 

Bodie opened his eyes. “It’s all this scintillating conversation, mate.”

“It takes two, you know.” Doyle hesitated a moment, then said: “Hey. I— “ He sighed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve realised more was going on than—”

“Ray. It was me, all right? I kept you off-balance, angry. I was keeping you out of it.”

Doyle looked away for a moment. “He must’ve been some mate.”

“I owed him my life.”

Doyle nodded. He’d understand that, of course he would. 

“But I owe you more,” Bodie found himself saying. “Maybe I should have told you.”

“I’d’ve stopped you. It took all that—your willingness to sacrifice everything—for Cheryl to stand up. I wouldn’t have risked—” Doyle broke off his sentence, looked away as he bit his lip. “Bodie….” He looked back at Bodie. “Why are you in CI5?”

Bodie felt his throat constrict. “Told you before.”

“Yeah: money.” But Doyle kept staring at him.

Finally, Bodie replied with as much truth as he dared: “Don’t ask me what you don’t want to hear.”

For a few moments, Doyle maintained eye contact, but then he looked away. “Will you stay?”

“Yeah.” Bodie sighed. “‘Course I will. Look, are you going to feed me?”

“Um, yeah.” Doyle scrunched up his face. “After we pick up some take away.”

Bodie rolled his eyes. “Oh, great.”

“C’mon, Indian down the street.” Doyle climbed out of the car, and Bodie followed.

“I suppose I’m buying?” Given all the trouble he’d caused, it seemed fair.

“Nah, make it even. Right?” Doyle touched Bodie’s stomach and headed for the restaurant.

Bodie watched him for a moment—all he wanted in one dangerous package. He’d wanted to bed Doyle for a long time. Richter had opened his mind to the pleasures of male sex, and he’d indulged ever since, on his own terms. But with Doyle it would be different, he knew that now. So, it was just as well that Doyle wouldn’t ever allow it. Doyle had his own lines he’d never cross. And while he’d flirted right back with Bodie, he’d never shown any sign that he understood what was on offer. Whether that was true or wilful blindness, Bodie didn’t know. He suspected the latter. Doyle was a great one for principles. _But he came back for you_ , a voice inside him said. _“He took out Billy’s men, cleared you to get Billy._ But that was Doyle, like Cowley, acting to protect the organisation, wasn’t it? He would have stopped Bodie in the end, just as he’d said. Doyle might break the ‘bad’ rules, as Cowley put it, but he wouldn’t let personal needs trump CI5. Even if Doyle wanted him, he wouldn’t throw everything away like that. Which left Bodie no hope. 

_What am I supposed to do now, Gran?_

It didn’t matter. Maybe he’d leave later, if Doyle moved on, found a wife…. He’d face that choice when it came. At the moment, he was where he needed to be. He wasn’t going to change his mind. No reconsideration. He hurried to catch up with Doyle.

*****

 

**_You’ll save me._ **

Reality mixed with dreams, and Doyle didn’t know the difference. He couldn’t move. His assailant was still there and would kill him. Get up! His muscles wouldn’t react. He could hear his own breaths, quick and harsh. He waited. Angry. Scared. Where was Bodie? Darkness overtook him.

_He’s in a pub, and Bodie is there. “You sweat it out and you pour it back in. Stay cool. Bodie.”_

_“Doyle.” He’s unimpressed by his new partner._

_“That’s the main thing, staying cool. Saw my medical report: slow heartbeat, slow metabolism. ’S gotta be cool. Sneaked a look at yours, though. Very uncool. Hot temperament. Still, a good man. The tops. Worth knowing. You won’t fall if they push.”_

_Arrogant berk, so self-confident. And yet, he’s gratified by the words as he hears them. His heart swells._

Doyle drifted in and out of consciousness. Bodie was there. He’d found him—of course. He’d said he wouldn’t leave. Best partner. True to his word.

_“Can’t afford to give a damn. Might make you hesitate. Forget the book. You shoot to kill. He will.”_

No. _He rejects that. What’s the difference, then, between them and the villains? There’s more to it than that. Judgement. Mercy._

In the ambulance, he tried to thank Bodie for keeping his promise. But Bodie just shouted at him, unintelligible words. Why was he so angry?

_Cowley is pacing, talking about his time with the police. Compassion and the need for it. But suddenly they are in a graveyard._

_“A row of graves. That's the bottom line of all your noble sentiments: lives wasted.”_

_“Yours, too?” Cowley asks._

_“Why not? It's why I was nailed.”_

_“Because you were careless.”_

_“Nah. Because I didn't care enough.” Promise broken, unmasked. He wants to cry out, but he can’t move._

_“You don't want us to get who nailed you?”_

_“Maybe I was asking for it.” Fit punishment._

_“You're not even curious to know who it was? Might be after me, too. Might be after Bodie, all of us. You want us to die?”_

_“No.” Not Bodie. Never. Where’s Bodie? Why can’t he find him? His fault. His fault Bodie has left. He struggles to rise, go after him, but he’s pulled back…_

Voices washed over him, but the words made little sense.

“The lignocaine seems to have settled it down.”

“I’m counting on you to have him stay that way.”

“A doctor, I am. God, I'm not.” 

_Cowley is grilling him, forcing him to remember…remember…. A woman! No, he doesn’t want to know the truth. If there are no innocents, then what is the point?_

_Cowley is arguing: “Think about it. Think of all the lives your action saved. How many people are alive because of your action. Those people want you well again, doing your job.”_

_“Doing my job in this chaos? Give me one good reason.” He had reasons, once, but they’re gone, drowned in blood. Blood on his hands._

_“You have a contract,” Cowley said._

_“I can break it. I can resign.”_

_“Fine. You want to put that in writing?”_

_“Yeah. Can I start ‘Dear George’?”_

Doyle was aware of movement, and a voice: “That’s much better. He’s holding his own.” He tried to open his eyes. There was something important he…. Light and shadows…and _Bodie!_ Bodie was there. Relief flooded through him. He could tell his partner, share the secret. As the face of the girl in his flat flashed in his mind, Doyle moved his finger, remembering the ring he had shown Bodie. He fell back into darkness as Bodie left.

_He’s in the graveyard again. He watches a coffin being lifted from a hearse, and realises Bodie is the driver. You shoot to kill. He turns away, but then Bodie is beside him, smiling. “To the pure, all things are pure. Better than working on a lathe. C’mon Doyle, don’t let them beat you.”_

_Images of Bodie swim before his eyes: despising Turvey for offering them money; saving Parsali without dum-dums. “Yeah, well, don’t do as I say, do as I do.”_

He was aware of machines around him, and a nurse monitoring him. He knew he’d been shot. Bodie was working the case. He drifted in and out of consciousness.

_The girl is hovering over him, gun in hand. He’s angry with her. “You kill them, you kill yourselves. You want justice? You want revenge. It's stupidity. You want to live, and you kill. Stupidity!”_

Doyle knew he was awake, although he didn’t open his eyes. The dream slipped away, but it left behind a realisation: it wasn’t his fault. He shifted a little in the hospital bed, uncomfortable. But it was true. Latowa and Charlie, the girl…. One person could be both innocent and guilty, carry out bad actions for good reasons. It was all shades of grey, wasn’t it? And he was no more—or less—than anyone else. He regretted lashing out at Paul Coogan, losing control. He didn’t regret his actions with Ann. He wasn’t responsible for anyone but himself. It was such a simple realisation. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of it before—hadn’t said it—but he hadn’t really believed it. Right back to the beginning—Johnny and Sherry. It wasn’t a matter of fault and responsibility for others, just…choices and consequences. His own, yeah, but theirs as well. 

_Let it go_. Finally. He eased into sleep again. 

_He’s fighting, but there are too many of them. One after the other, he puts them down. But there are always more, and he’s desperate. He has to get through them, has to get to Bodie! And suddenly he’s in a clearing in the woods. He watches as Bodie releases King Billy. Bodie looks up him. “Can’t afford to give a damn, Doyle.”_

_But Ray knows the truth._

_Bodie loves him. And is loved._

Doyle opened his eyes, fully aware. He felt as if his heart must be pounding, but the machines didn’t react. He blinked, and breathed, and thought about Bodie. What a fool he’d been. All these years. And yet, he wasn’t the only one who had changed. If he’d allowed himself to fall for Bodie earlier, he wasn’t sure they’d’ve made it. For that matter, he wasn’t sure now, but there was no one he trusted more than Bodie. The nurse checked on him, seemed pleased by the machines, and told him to get more rest. He didn’t want to sleep, though. He waited for Bodie.

And he didn’t know how long it had been when Bodie finally came into his room. “Oh, you’re awake, now, are you?” Bodie asked. He looked tired. “Now that the work’s all done. Typical.”

Too many thoughts and words were in his head. Doyle couldn’t sort through them. He lifted his hand, and after a pause, Bodie took it in his. When Bodie tried to disengage, Doyle held on tighter. Bodie finally snagged a chair and sat beside Doyle’s bed, still holding on to Doyle. He seemed puzzled, but didn’t protest.

“There’s blood on your sleeve,” Doyle said.

Bodie glanced down, then back at Doyle, eyes wary.

“The girl?”

“Mayli Kuolo. Lin Foh was responsible for her father’s death.”

“Vengeance.”

“She killed Lin Foh—shot him. But Cramer shot her. She didn’t make it.”

Doyle nodded.

“Look, don’t you start.” Bodie’s voice was rough. “It wasn’t your—”

“I know”

“—Fault. Dammit, Doyle. You—” Bodie stopped, and then he frowned. “What?”

“I know. You’re right.” Doyle couldn’t help but smile a little at Bodie’s expression. He took in a breath. “Been doing a lot of thinking. And I think…I know….” Christ, this was hard. He had to trust his instincts. “Why you’ve stayed. It wasn’t the money, was it?”

Bodie stared at him, and then lashes covered his eyes as he looked at their joined hands. Doyle held his breath. “Takes nearly dying to change your mind, does it?”

Doyle smiled. “Yeah. Seems so.”

Bodie looked round at the closed door. “And you do pick your bloody places.” He leaned in towards Doyle. “It’s all in, Ray. Or not,” he whispered, his mouth close to Doyle’s.

Ray closed the scant distance between them, and tried to convey all he’d realised with his kiss. Bodie finally pulled back, but he stayed in the chair, and he didn’t release Doyle’s hand.

“Cowley, you know. Might not—”

Doyle interrupted him. “Then again, he might.” He was unconcerned. There were other ways he could fight, if it came to that. He’d make it as long as Bodie was with him. But he saw Bodie was frowning again. “I’m choosing you,” he finally said, wanting it to be very clear.

“You’re an idealist, mate. Even Cowley said so. And he was right.”

“And?”

“Well, I’m a realist. Oil and water.”

“Cowley called us chalk and cheese, once.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Finding it’s better wishing, maybe, than having?”

Bodie let out a short laugh. “No. It’s just, you don’t make impulsive decisions like this. You could lose everything, Ray.”

“Nothing that matters. I’ve thought it out—going in with open eyes, you know. If you’ll stick it. God knows you haven’t stuck with anything or anyone before. But you said you’d stay, and you have.”

Bodie rubbed his thumb across Doyle’s hand. “Must be some of the chalk’s rubbed off on me.” 

“Well, thank God for that. I don’t much fancy chasing you all over the world.”

“Immovable object meet unstoppable—” Bodie broke off as he yawned.

“Yeah, go on,” Doyle said. “Get your rest. I’m surprised they haven’t chased you out already.”

“Bribed her, didn’t I?” Bodie smiled.

“Well, if it was with your body, I don’t want to know.” 

“Reckon that belongs to you now.”

“Pity yours is all damaged.” Doyle closed his eyes, his own exhaustion creeping back. He felt a light kiss on his forehead.

“Mend quickly, Ray.”

Doyle fell asleep, and his dreams left him at peace.

 

The End  
September 2018


End file.
